


Narn I Gorth Hurin

by MaureenLycaon



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Grimdark, Other, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:42:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22316518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaureenLycaon/pseuds/MaureenLycaon
Summary: This is an odd duck indeed: a Tolkien torture fanfic, as perfectly canonical as I could make it. (No sex, violence, explicit torture)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	Narn I Gorth Hurin

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: It's all Tolkien's, except for my choice of words (mostly) and my interpretation. No copyright challenge intended, only a tribute of love to his rich and memorable creation.
> 
> Finished January, 2004. My thanks to Tyellas, Camilla, Manya, and Lionus, who beta'd.

_"Last of all Húrin stood alone. Then he cast aside his shield, and wielded an axe two-handed; and it is sung that the axe smoked in the black blood of the troll-guard of Gothmog until it withered, and each time that he slew Húrin cried: 'Aurë entuluva! Day shall come again!' Seventy times he uttered that cry; but they took him at last alive, by the command of Morgoth, for the Orcs grappled him with their hands, which clung to him still though he hewed off their arms; and ever their numbers were renewed, until at last he fell buried beneath them. Then Gothmog bound him and dragged him to Angband with mockery."_

\-- J.R.R. Tolkien, "Of the Fifth Battle", in **The Silmarillion**

Húrin, whom the Elves called the Thalion or Dauntless, awaited his fate in the lightless depths of Angband. With no light, he could not guess how much time passed. It might have been hours or a day or more since he had been thrust into this cell and left there. Not even an Orcish guard had passed by, let alone brought him any food or water.

The heavy chains with their icy manacles held his hands behind his back in an unyielding grip. The champion of Men sat with his back and arms against the rough wall, his legs drawn up under him for warmth, with only his thoughts to keep him dubious company.

Even now, imprisoned without hope in this stony tomb, he did not fear. He only waited, knowing torture and death would come soon. His greatest torment was not the darkness of the dungeon cell, or its draining cold; not hunger or thirst, or even dread of the torment surely to come. It was the loss of all hope.

For years, hope had stirred among the Eldar and the Edain, fanned by the deeds of Beren and Lúthien, who had slipped into Angband and wrested a Silmaril from Morgoth's crown.

Húrin, who along with his brother Huor had dwelled for a while in the secret city of Gondolin, had known well the splendor and strength of the Eldar. He had not believed that they could lose the battle. Now the hosts of Elves and Men were no more than a bright memory. Morgoth had prevailed, by the uncounted hordes of his Orcs, the terror of his Balrogs and the great dragons none had expected -- and above all, by the treachery of other Men.

Húrin gritted his teeth against the surge of rage in his heart as he thought of the treachery of the sons of Bor. He had known of the darkness of the Men who had entered the lands of Beleriand so recently. He had not known, nor had even the Eldar guessed, just how deep that darkness had been. He wondered if the sacrifice of Hithlum would prove enough to remove the stain that the race of Men bore now.

Huor had received one last gift of foreknowing, and so had remained and fought the hopeless battle in faith -- faith that the few years that their sacrifice bought Gondolin would make a difference in the end. The Men of Hithlum had remained out of honor, and out of pride and courage. They knew that they were doomed, and they would rather die warriors' deaths in battle than be hunted and slain one by one as skulking fugitives.

Huor had fallen by his side. In the final desperate battle, so had the warriors of Hithlum, one by one, under the blades and hammers of Morgoth's hordes.

At the end, Húrin alone had still lived. He fought on because he did not want to be taken alive. He had cried "Day shall come again!" seventy times as he had struck down the trolls and the Orcs, but he had not shared Huor's last gift of hope. His battle cry had been the stubborn defiance of the doomed.

When he had collapsed in exhaustion beneath a pile of Orcs, the steel of his axe's blade melted into uselessness by the corrosive blood of the trolls, the Balrogs under Gothmog's command had stripped him of his mail and bound him. The demons had dragged him north to Angband, a bitter journey of humiliation and pain and hunger, giving him only such water and food as would keep him alive, ordering the Orcs to flog him along whenever he stumbled or slowed.

Now he lay in chains in this lightless dungeon, awaiting Morgoth's pleasure. No doubt the Fallen One's wrath at the escape of the Elf-King would be unbounded. Húrin wondered what form his agonies would take at the hands of the Dark Lord's minions. Then he realized that he no longer even cared very much.

He thought of his people, the folk of Hithlum. Four generations before, the chieftain Marach had led his people into Beleriand to escape the shadow of the Dark Lord in the East. He had done so in vain, Húrin thought, and he tasted the bitterness, the utter desolation of that thought. Of all the people of Hithlum, only the women, the children and those men who could not fight still lived. Morgoth would not spare them for long.

He thought of Morwen, pregnant now with their third child, futilely awaiting his return. He prayed to any Vala who might hear that she would flee to Brethil as he had asked her to, and not to Doriath.

Like the Secondborn, the Eldar were broken. Their few remaining kingdoms would now fall, one by one, to Morgoth; the Dark Lord would rule all of Arda. Húrin wished he could have faith in his brother's foreknowledge, but he could not. All that he could see ahead was darkness. The Valar, and Eru Himself, had abandoned Arda.

Aching, still covered with the sweat and blood and bruises of battle, Húrin steeled himself, coldly resolving to endure any torture, any humiliation. His warriors had died bravely; he could do no less, for that was all that was left for him now.

At last, two trolls came, to bring him before Morgoth.

No Edain save one (1), and no Eldar that Húrin had ever spoken to, had seen the halls and corridors of Angband and returned to describe them. They held nothing of beauty, nothing of hope. Huge pillars of dark basalt upheld the roof far above. Torches lit them, but could not dispel the shadows or the half-seen horrors that roiled among them. More substantial horrors emerged from the gloom, then plunged back into it: Orcs, trolls, Balrogs and werewolves, all bound on evil errands.

They reached the forges. Lurid light spilled from the great archways that lined the corridor, each one opening into a vast forge. The tumult filled the halls: the din and clatter of hammers striking metal, the roaring of the furnaces, Orcs' harsh voices, whips snapping, occasional cries of pain.

The trolls quickened their pace. Almost twice his height, their stride was too long for him, and they yanked at his chains to hurry him along, half-pulling him off his feet. One snarled something in the speech of Morgoth's servants, using the chain to keep him upright, and he staggered forward again.

They paused for a moment to greet a trio of Balrog guards, each one bearing a massive two-handed sword and no other sign of rank. The demons awoke no fear in him; after his grim journey here, it would take more than Balrogs to fill his heart with dread. Hearing a soft sound from above, he took the moment to glance up, and glimpsed a dark form flitting through the shadows between the heads of the columns. One of the bat-shaped servants that served the Dark Lord as messengers, no doubt.

Still, even the Thalion could know terror. Húrin felt its beginnings from the shadow of the Fallen One in his heart. He could measure his progress toward the throne room by the steady growth of that shadow, darkening his soul with the emotion he so seldom knew. By the time they reached the two huge halberd-wielding Balrogs standing guard at the chamber's entrance, his heart was pounding, though he was too proud to allow himself to cringe or tremble.

The Balrogs lifted their halberds and growled their consent, and the trolls shoved him forward, into the vast throne room.

Fully a score of Balrogs stood guard there -- lining the black walls, and arranged around the throne. Smaller than the two at the entrance, these bore only their whips as weapons. Their flames, and those of their whips, were quenched; but this made them little less terrible, for without the flames Húrin could see their true forms, black and slimy and reeking with an odd scent (2).

Other dark shapes stood or crouched in the gloom. Húrin's eyes made out a massive werewolf, fully as large as a pony, sitting against one column and watching him. Its tongue lolled mockingly. Then he picked out another -- and another -- many more, lying or sitting behind the black pillars, before the walls, in shadowy corners. Their eyes were as red and evil as the Balrogs' as they looked back at him.

He stumbled over something as the trolls forced him forward, and looked down to see a shattered white bone, vivid against the dark floor. It was a femur, fresh enough to still have traces of pink on it. Other gruesome remnants of werewolves' feasts lay scattered here and there upon the flagstones.

Perhaps his own bones would soon join them, he thought.

The trolls gave him a final shove, and he stood before the throne. Pushing down on his shoulders with stony paws, they forced him to kneel.

Húrin's eyes could not register Morgoth's form at first. He saw only a greater blackness sitting upon the dark throne, and two blazing white lights where a human head would be, the only lights that pierced that blackness. Then, it was as if a great mass of shadows had dispersed, and he saw the Dark Lord clearly.

Morgoth wore a shape not wholly unlike that of the Eldar, but much taller and far more terrible. He had to crane his neck back to see the Fallen One's head. A pale, pale face with unthinkably dark eyes lifted, as if that head had been bowed when Húrin had first entered the room. The face was beautiful beyond all measure -- or it would have been, if not for the great triple scar that harrowed it across the brow.

Robes of unrelieved black veiled the rest of the Dark Lord's form. Húrin saw now that the two lights were the Silmarils set into his iron crown, blazing with a light somehow angry, threatening. An empty dark socket, where once the third Silmaril had been, gaped like the socket of a lost eye.

The very air around the Fallen One seemed to roil, as if Morgoth's presence warped it, violated it.

Húrin stared up at the darkling form, fighting a powerful urge to look away, down, anywhere but directly at it. He could feel sweat breaking out on his forehead, threatening to run down his skin. For a moment, he was actually glad to be on his knees, because a weakness like melting spring ice had gripped his legs.

The Fallen One gazed down upon him with a face beyond all mortal reading. Then, an emotion _did_ show upon it: a vast, gloating mockery more profound than any a child of Arda could voice, more wounding than any laughter.

Warrior's pride stirred in Húrin's heart, more familiar than the fear, making him clench his fists in their shackles.

Morgoth's voice sounded in his ears, as lovely as any Eldar's voice, but with a harsh, brazen undertone that belied its seeming fairness. "So Húrin Thalion kneels before me, taken alive like a coward who surrenders."

Loathing swelled in Húrin's heart, pushing away some of his dread. Strength flowed back into his limbs. He refused to reply, to speak or plead, or to turn his gaze from Morgoth.

Still, a measure of terror remained. He took care not to look directly into those black, black eyes. He could not explain why even to himself, but he felt that those unearthly eyes held something worse than mere death.

A long silence followed, broken only by the distant hammering of the forges. He had a slight impression that the dark form shifted just a little, barely perceptibly. At last, Morgoth spoke again, his voice unchanged.

"Need you be told who I am? Or how utterly without hope your plight is?"

The anger burned in Húrin's heart, got the better of his silence. "I know and I hate," he replied, his voice low and bitter. "I have fought you without fear for long. I do not fear you now, nor your demon slaves, foe of the Valar!"

With a toss of his head, he flung his tangled, grime-darkened hair back, out of his face, glared defiantly into Morgoth's eyes . . .

. . . and was swallowed in a mist of darkness. The Fallen One's eyes were a blackness so profound that Húrin could never have comprehended or imagined it. Not even the light from the torches could strike highlights in that darkness; it swallowed up all light and thought and hope and seemed to go on forever, vast as the Void.

Húrin, too, was drowned in that primal darkness. Instinctively, he struggled for escape, but his mind floundered helplessly like a partridge in a fowler's net. He did not know how, or even if he _could_ escape -- or what would befall him if he did not. Would he only die? Or would he be enthralled, blinded to all else, and become a tool of this first evil? Or -- could the soul of even an Edain be completely swallowed up and destroyed? He did not know. He only knew that for the first time, he truly understood how beyond his thought or even that of the Eldar Morgoth's evil was. Dreadful knowledge filled his soul, knowledge of how hopeless the long struggle against the Fallen One truly was. Against his ancient evil even the Firstborn were as leaves in the autumn wind. He had existed countless ages before the making of Arda, and would exist until the final battle . . .

That vile darkness dragged Húrin down into its depths, demanding his surrender; he knew he had no hope of winning. Yet, he was still the Dauntless; he would not submit. With an effort greater than any he had ever exerted in his life, Húrin stilled his fear. He called upon his courage and his hate, and he fought back savagely. He fought as grimly as he had in the battle, determined to perish utterly before yielding.

Something stirred faintly in his soul then. Something not of him -- and most certainly not of Morgoth, for it felt not dark but bright. The evil tide stopped, ebbed back, letting him break free of it. The foul mists cleared from his mind. He struggled to grasp that hint of light . . .

A stunning blow on his mouth split his lower lip, and both light and the last clouds of darkness broke and shattered. When the mists cleared from Húrin's eyes, he saw the hideous form of a Balrog standing before him, fist still raised. Its mane burned with its anger, red eyes brilliant as embers. The Balrog drew back its fist to strike again. A soft sound came from Morgoth, as if he had shifted his weight or sighed softly. The demon stepped back, its fiery eyes leaving no doubt of its fury.

Fury at his words of defiance, before he had fallen into the Dark Lord's gaze? Or at that half-perceived hint of light?

Morgoth gazed at him, and that scarred, inhuman face was unreadable. Then the Fallen One smiled gently, and the hall grew somehow darker with his smile.

"Continue to fear not, for now," he said softly. "Fear when the flames of torture sear you, and the burning whips of the Balrogs scorch your pale mortal flesh."

The Dark Lord did not need to nod to his lieutenants; they understood what he wished. Two other Balrogs stepped forward to seize Húrin's shoulders in twin crushing grips. Had their flames not been quenched, their fiery hands would have seared his flesh to ash; as it was, his bones creaked under their bruising fingers. He refused to cry out as they began roughly dragging him toward the entrance from which he had come.

Húrin staggered and stumbled down the corridors in the grip of the Balrogs. He would have fallen repeatedly, unable to use his chained hands to catch himself, had their grip not held him upright.

His mouth still burned with pain, blood dripping down his chin. He ignored it; he had suffered worse in the past, and no doubt he was about to face much worse now.

They forced him down long corridors, turning corners until he lost all sense of direction, but always descending downward, deeper into the earth.

_What_ was that distant light that he had seen while lost in Morgoth's eyes? He tried to grasp the memory, but could not.

The din of the forges grew as they traveled, until the clatter of the hammers seemed fit to shake the walls. They passed massive archways glowing with the flames of the forges in the vast caverns beyond. Húrin would not turn his head to look, but he knew that the eyes of the captive Elven smiths within were furtively watching them pass. Once he heard the crack of a lash, a short, bitten-off scream and an overseer's guttural shout.

No doubt Morgoth had many new slaves in the wake of the battle. At least the people of Turgon had been spared that fate . . . for a few years.

They entered one last firelit corridor. The Balrogs released Húrin's shoulders and shoved him to its middle, between two more archways, where a stout chain with two iron manacles at its end dangled from the high ceiling above. It was clearly a place of public punishment; no doubt the slaves watching even now from the forges knew it all too well. Morgoth meant to make an example of him before his thralls.

The Balrogs laid down their glowing whips upon the floor. One stepped behind him, squatting down to unlock the chains which still imprisoned his wrists; they dropped to the floor, their clatter unheard beneath that of the forges. It was the first time his hands had been free since his capture. He tried to flex his arms, agony flaring as the blood returned to them; he could barely move them at all.

The demons stepped back, staring at him, their ghastly tusked mouths twisted into broad leers. Húrin realized that they were hoping he would try to escape, daring him.

He glared back at them, refusing to give them their pleasure and disgrace himself with a show of fear, refusing even to rub the pain from his arms and wrists.

When they realized he would not run, they ceased to grin, and approached him again. One seized his hands and roughly pulled them upward, stretching his arms over his head. Húrin offered no resistance, any more than he had sought useless flight. The other Balrog closed the manacles over his wrists, one at a time, locking each one with a key that seemed too small in its great fist.

When that was finished, they methodically stripped him naked there in the open corridor, before the gaze of the Orcs and thralls in the chambers beyond. Using the brute strength of their powerful hands, they ripped the leather shirt from his back, the tunic underneath, and the breeches from his legs, tossing the torn leather and shredded fabric to one side as so much offal. They pulled his boots off his feet, throwing them aside as well.

The extra indignity distressed him but little. The humiliation of being taken alive, the misery of his journey to Angband -- these had truly seared his pride. Being naked and in chains was naught in comparison.

The din of the hammers at the forges never ceased.

The Balrogs stepped back once more, and picked up their whips, which had never ceased to burn and glow. Húrin tensed, expecting the flogging to begin.

Instead, they stood motionless, as if waiting again. He could not flee, and so he wondered what they waited for now . . . until he felt the tingling of his wrists beneath the shackles.

The iron manacles had been cold against his flesh, but now his wrists began to sting, and then to burn. The burning mounted. It swelled into a fiery agony underneath each manacle, until he had to clench his jaw against the pain. Trying to understand what was happening, he craned his neck to look up at his wrists. He could see no darkening of charring skin, but blood was beginning to trickle from underneath the iron. The sight tore a single unwilling gasp from him before he regained control.

These were the legendary enchanted shackles of Angband -- made for Elves, not for Men, for an Elf's wrists would heal so that he could return to the forges. How many Noldor and Edain had suffered here, naked, in agony? The Edain, at least, must have been put to death afterward; a slave was useless without his hands, after all.

He would not give the Balrogs the pleasure of his screams, he resolved. If fortune were with him, they would flog him to death, and he would suffer no further.

He lowered his gaze to the Balrogs, and saw that their faces were again twisted into leers. Only then did one of them move to stand behind him, raising its whip for the first stroke.

The blow upon his bare back made him nearly forget the pain of his wrists. The viper sting of an ordinary lash would have been bad enough, but that unearthly flaming scourge burned into his skin and the flesh beneath it, sending a scarlet flash of pure agony through his whole body.

He didn't cry out. Nor did he cry out at the second, or the third, or after. Even as the flogging went on, beginning to transform his back into a mass of charred lines, he remained silent, though he felt that the flesh was being seared from his bones.

Fresh blood trickled from his bruised, swollen lower lip as he bit down on it and opened the cut afresh. He waited for death, or at least unconsciousness, and prayed it would come soon.

He lost all awareness of the corridor in which he hung, of the frightened slaves who furtively watched from the open chambers within. He didn't hear the harsh, growling laughter of the Orcs. He barely heard the Balrogs' deeper laughter as he writhed in the creaking chains, the manacles eating away at his wrists. Only the racket of the forges' hammers remained, a constant chorus to his agony.

He never saw the tear trickling down the cheek of a captive Elf, who turned away hastily before an overseer could notice and punish his pity.

On his throne, the great fallen Ainu brooded, lost in thoughts incomprehensible to any child of Arda. For once, even the heavy weight of his iron crown with its precious burden was forgotten.

Presently, he remembered a prophecy. He arose quickly from his throne, and walked into the hall.

When the Balrogs saw their master approaching, they ceased their work and stepped back, clearing his path to the prisoner. The Dark Lord's slow, measured tread sounded, soft, yet somehow penetrating through every other sound. The din of the forges faltered as the Orcs and their charges turned to look. With a single motion of his hand, Morgoth signaled for all work to cease, and a profound hush fell upon the hallway.

Blood was running freely now down Húrin's arms and even trickling from his burned, mutilated back, dripping onto the ebony stone of the floor. Through his haze of anguish, he became aware of the great dark presence nearby, and of the sudden silence of the forges. His mind cleared slowly. With a great effort, he lifted his head to see the Dark Lord standing before him, towering over even the Balrogs.

Morgoth stared down at him, and that ruined, beautiful face was unreadable again. It was impossible to say if the Dark Lord was gloating, or merely curious, or something else. The Balrogs silently watched their master, whips lowered.

Morgoth spoke, his voice soft again. "You are indeed the bravest of mortal Men."

Húrin refused to reply, for he feared he would groan if he did. He gritted his teeth at a fresh surge of pain from his wrists, feeling mingled sweat and blood running down his arms.

Morgoth's voice came again, still soft, almost gentle. "You can be spared further woe, if you but choose."

Húrin's eyes opened just a little; he was slowly recovering strength. Morgoth had bent down, and that scarred face loomed in his vision, and yet Húrin could feel no breath from him. What he felt of the Fallen One was that great, foul darkness, and he might have shivered, but he was too worn with pain.

"Listen well, Thalion. It is not fitting for a great warrior such as you to suffer for such worthless friends. They do not seek to avenge you, or to rescue you. Instead, they hide in the hills, cowering in terror of me, while you linger here in Angband."

Húrin's mind was clear now, though his back and wrists still blazed with unbelievable pain. A memory of the battlefield flashed before him, putting the lie to Morgoth's words.

He remembered his own and Huor's desperate pleas to Turgon to flee while he still could. To let them remain behind and cover the retreat of Gondolin's king. He remembered his brother's faith that some miracle would yet emerge from the Hidden City . . . some spark of light that would yet turn the tide of this dark, hopeless war.

Húrin kept his jaws clamped, and remained silent.

Morgoth had waited. Now, having yet received no reply, he spoke again.

"I would far rather that your strong hands wield a weapon again, than that you moan here in chains beneath my Balrogs' lashes. A sword or an axe I can have forged for you that would gladden your heart, and mail such as no Man or Elf can fashion."

Húrin wished he could close his ears to that soft, treacherous voice as it went on.

"Come, enter my service. I will make you the highest of my warriors, my great and dreaded champion, leading my armies to victory. You can hunt down the wretched would-be Elf king who fled the field and deserted you and your kin, and wreak your vengeance and mine against the rebels who foolishly defy my rightful rule."

Húrin closed his eyes. In his mind, he saw again Turgon's eyes as the king had reluctantly turned away, at last acceding to Huor's plea. The anguish and regret had been written clear in those eyes, graven into the flawless Noldor face. As the Elves had ridden away, Turgon had looked back only once, but the same anguish still had shown upon his face.

Did the Fallen One truly think that he, Húrin Thalion, could be persuaded to such treachery? But then, why should he not? It had worked well enough with Ulfang, who had not even suffered the torment of Angband.

The low, insinuating voice continued, dragging Húrin's mind back to the present. He wished it gone, wished for death to come quickly so that he need hear it no more. The words, the false promises, the urgings to betrayal sickened him.

"I will have my Men unbind you, and comfort your hurts. All you need do is reveal to me Turgon's sanctuary --"

Húrin's patience broke.

"Accursed king! I am no tool for your treachery," he burst out. Fresh pain surged from his injured mouth, but he scarcely noticed it. "Not for you, who never held true to any promise or compact. Seek traitors elsewhere!"

Morgoth drew back, as if in astonishment. After a moment, he began again.

"Madness must hold you in its grip, mortal. Are you delirious with pain, to refuse what I offer? If vengeance does not draw you, then consider wealth. The gold and silver of the Elves do I hold, and treasures of shining gems that once languished in the hoards of the Valar, and which yet they mourn. Of them, I will grant you such a share as to satisfy any greed, no matter how great. Come, answer me."

Húrin glared helplessly at the Dark Lord -- though this time he took care not to meet those unthinkable eyes. Anger roiled in him, half-drowning the agony of his wounds. He only wished for Morgoth to leave, and that the Balrogs would finish flogging him to death as quickly as possible.

"Boast to me no more of the treasures you have stolen from the Three Kindreds, Morgoth Bauglir! You are humbled indeed if your dark hopes and vile plans depend so much upon one weak, doomed prisoner."

The vision struck him then, with the force of a blow. That faint light he had dimly glimpsed at the nadir of his struggle after falling into Morgoth's eyes returned now. It swelled and swallowed him up in an instant like brilliant sunlight. The gloomy hall, the Dark Lord standing before him, the Balrogs, even the agony of his back and his wrists, all faded into unimportance.

It was like fainting, and he welcomed it therefore, yet it brought not oblivion but something more precious. Granted to him as it had been granted to his brother, the vision drove the despair from his soul and brought the knowledge of hope. Not for him, he was doomed; not for what remained of his kin, who were also doomed; but for that ultimate victory in the unguessed future, for he _knew_ that Morgoth was also doomed.

The Balrogs must have sensed what had touched him, for they were staring at him with open astonishment. He turned his head to look at them, and at the Orcish overseers who also watched. Yet, when he spoke, it was as if in a dream -- the words scarcely willed at all.

"You Balrogs and Orcs, let your foul banners go off to battle! Let your vile legions seek Turgon. Your triumph will be brief, for the black tide will turn. Foul minions of a fouler master, know and fear your doom. I see from afar the wrath of the Valar, aroused in anger!"

And the vision faded, as swiftly as it had come, leaving behind only its memory.

A storm of wrath answered his words. The Orcs' eardrum-breaking screeches filled the corridor. The Balrogs roared, their deeper voices counterpoints of rage. For once, the expressions of Morgoth's face could be read clearly by even a mortal Man: astonishment -- perhaps a moment of fear? -- before giving way to anger, and then a deadly calm.

"You have spoken, then," the Fallen One said, his voice cold beyond cold. "And I shall accomplish my will without your help, arrogant mortal. Lungorthin --" he turned to one of the Balrogs -- "unchain the prisoner."

The massive demon stepped forward, its flames quenched, and began to unlock the shackles that had tormented Húrin's wrists. Húrin concentrated all his will upon showing no weakness, determined not to fall to the floor. When his bloodied wrists were free, he staggered, but managed to keep his feet.

Morgoth seized his shoulder with one immensely powerful great hand, and spoke a single incomprehensible word. The dark hallway, the hanging chain, the Balrogs and Orcs and the sad captives at the forges blurred around him and Húrin, and then vanished, replaced by utter _nothingness_ and intense cold.

In the space of a single breath, that strange nothingness, and the cold that went with it, passed away. The world faded back into place around them, blurry, and then clear.

They stood upon a place of level ground high on the slopes of Thangorodrim. Nowhere was there any sign of any green, living thing -- only black stone, and white snow that lingered here even in summer. The sky was gray and cold as despair.

Húrin staggered and almost fell. He gasped for breath in the thin, icy air. The cold bit into the terrible open wounds of his back and his wrists with teeth of burning ice; it took all his strength not to scream or fall to his knees.

His hands felt utterly numb. Looking down, he saw his wrists, and shock held him staring. Where the manacles had gripped him, all skin was gone, and red muscle gleamed baldly.

But Morgoth stepped in front of him, forcing him to look up, and the Fallen One seemed to fill all of his vision. Even in the daylight, the air wavered around that great dark form, as if it could not endure the Dark Lord's presence.

Morgoth gestured to one side, toward the face of the mountain. Húrin turned to look; there seemed no point in doing otherwise.

He saw there the chair of stone. He could not tell if it were a natural outcropping that the elements and time had carved into its strange shape, or if it had been fashioned by tools or magic. But it stood close against the sheer wall of rock that stretched high above, its back to the cliff.

Morgoth pushed him toward it, and the pain of that huge hand on his burned and bleeding back nearly made him scream as he stumbled forward two steps.

The Dark Lord, having made his wishes known, did not urge Húrin again, but waited.

Better to go with courage and dignity than be dragged by main force, Húrin decided. There was no escape in any case. He walked the rest of the way by himself, and sat down upon the chair. The stone pressing against his back was pure anguish. He glared up at Morgoth, clinging to his hatred -- and to the memory of the vision -- to still his fear.

Morgoth stared back, and that scarred face was as unfathomable as ever. The Fallen One made a hand gesture. The torment of Húrin's back and wrists vanished so suddenly that the cessation of pain roiled his stomach with nausea. Glancing down at his wrists, he saw smooth, unbroken skin, and realized what had happened.

"Not so easily will you perish," Morgoth said. "And yet, death you may still crave from me as a boon."

The Dark Lord smiled, and even the stout heart of Húrin filled with fear at that smile. Morgoth gestured again, and Húrin felt himself forced back against the chair, pinioned by invisible bonds. He reacted instinctively at first, fighting to get up, feeling that he could scarcely breathe. Then he mastered himself, giving up the futile struggle, and clamped his jaw as he had under the Balrogs' burning lashes.

Morgoth seemed somehow to grow still more forbidding. The smile fled from those inhumanly perfect lips, leaving only coldness. The Dark Lord's gaze bored into Húrin's face.

"Think of your wife, and your son, and your other kin still in Hithlum," Morgoth said. "For they dwell now in my realm, and they are at my mercy. You have defied me, and I will strike not at you but at them."

A moment of utter anguish rent Húrin's heart; he struggled to keep it from showing in his face. His muscles strained instinctively against his magical bonds.

"You have no mercy," he answered, forcing his voice to remain steady. "But you will not come at Turgon through them, for they do not know his secrets."

"Yet," Morgoth said, implacable, "I may come at you, and all your accursed house; and you shall be broken upon my will, though you all were made of steel. Upon all whom you love my thought shall weigh as a cloud of Doom, and it shall bring them down into darkness and despair. Wherever they go, evil shall arise. Whenever they speak, their words shall bring ill counsel. Whatsoever they do shall turn against them. They shall die without hope, cursing both life and death."

_There was never hope for them,_ Húrin reminded himself, but it scarcely eased the anguish.

Without waiting for Húrin's reply, the Fallen One turned west to look out across the charred Anfauglir far below, and the hills of Hithlum beyond. He stretched out one great arm, and spoke several words in a harsh, strange language. Húrin could not understand the words, but he did not need to. Even he, the Thalion, felt his heart freeze at the evil that lay in their very syllables.

Morgoth lowered his arm and turned back to face Húrin. He spoke again, this time in the common tongue. "Behold! The shadow of my thought shall lie upon them wherever they go, and my hate shall pursue them to the ends of the world."

And Húrin knew now what would happen, what his torment would be. He knew he would remain here, trapped in this chair of stone, until the curse had played itself out to its bitter end. He prayed that he could sustain the hope of the vision, that it in turn would sustain _him_ through the dark years ahead.

Morgoth spoke one more time, smiling coldly.

"Sit there now, and look out upon the lands where evil and despair shall come upon those whom you have delivered to me," he said. "For you have dared to mock me, and have questioned the power of Melkor, Master of the fates of Arda. Therefore with my eyes you shall see, and with my ears you shall hear, and nothing shall be hidden from you."

_And even so it came to pass; but it is not said that Húrin asked ever of Morgoth either mercy or death, for himself or for any of his kin._

\-- "Of the Fifth Battle", **The Silmarillion**

End comments, for those who haven't read **The Silmarillion** :

1.) Beren Erchamion and Lúthien Tinúviel entered Morgoth's throne room in disguise and took a Silmaril. (Morgoth originally stole them from the Elven smith Fëanor.)

2.) When Gandalf fought the Balrog of Moria, and they fell into an underground lake, the Balrog became "a thing of slime" (in the book, not the movie).

3.) Yes, the Balrog in the movie was colossal, and couldn't conveniently have walked with a human captive and shoved him along. The concept of Balrogs changed radically from the time Tolkien first conceived them until the appearance of the one in **Lord of the Rings**. Nevertheless, I have kept the Balrogs in "The Lay of the Children of Húrin". I've used the assumption that Balrogs came in different sizes, or perhaps could change size at need. They were, after all, fallen Maiar.

At least four different accounts describe what happened to Húrin Thalion after his capture, in **The Silmarillion** , **Lays of Beleriand** (two different versions), and **Unfinished Tales**. I've used mostly the second version of "The Lay of the Children of Húrin" in **Lays of Beleriand** , which has the longest, most detailed version of the confrontation between Húrin and Morgoth. I can only beg my readers' indulgence and hope I've spun a coherent whole from them.

Only the "Lay of the Children of Húrin" gives the entire dialog between Húrin and Morgoth, and that in measured verse, which presumably is a ballad-maker's poetic license. Thus, I've used my own imagination as well, but with the source material as my guide.


End file.
